Magic Mirror
by Soledad
Summary: Something goes awry when trying to repair the veil between worlds, and Merlin, Arthur and Lancelot find themselves in "Camelot's" world. In exchange. "Camelot's" Merlin, Arthur and Leontes end up in Uther's kingdom. Will they survive long enough to find a way back?
1. Chapter 1: The Isle of the Blessed

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Fandom:** Merlin BBC/Camelot x-over

 **Genre:** Action-adventure, mystery, romance… take your pick.

 **Rating:** teens, for now

 **Timeframe:** after/during Ep 4.01-4.02 ("The Darkest Hour") for "Merlin BBC"; between episodes 9  & 10 for "Camelot".

 **Disclaimer:** "Merlin" belongs to the BBC and "Camelot" belongs to Starz. I don't own anything but the weird plot idea and make no money out of this. Just playing with the best parts of both shows.

 **Summary:** Something goes awry when trying to repair the veil between worlds, and Merlin, Arthur and Lancelot find themselves in "Camelot's" world. In exchange. "Camelot's" Merlin, Arthur and Leontes end up in Uther's kingdom. Will they survive long enough to find a way back?

* * *

 **Chapter 01 –The Isle of the Blessed**

* * *

 **Author's note:** This chapter follows the end of the 4th season opener for a while. Then it gets completely AU.

The spell Merlin uses to defeat the attackers is the one from the 4th Season episode "A Servant of Two Masters.

* * *

After the Great Dragon saves them from the Dorocha, Merlin and Lancelot catch up with Arthur and the rest of the knights. Naturally, there is much rejoicing; so much that no-one actually asks Merlin _how_ exactly has he recovered so quickly and miraculously. Which, in Lancelot's opinion, is a good thing; admitting that magic was involved wouldn't go down well with Arthur.

They spend the night in the ruined building. The knights are exhausted, more mentally than physically in fact, and sleep like a log. Only Merlin and Arthur are awake, lounging by the fire.

"It's going to be fine," Merlin promises. "Everything is going to be all right."

It would be a ridiculous promise coming from anyone else, but has Merlin not miraculously recovered from the attack of he Dorocha? Arthur feels a secret behind that fact but chooses not to ask about the whys and wherefores.

"I'm just tired," he says instead.

Merlin doesn't look at him, staring at the flames thoughtfully. His angular face is strangely otherworldy, almost beautiful in the firelight.

"You don't have to sacrifice yourself," he says.

But the truth is that he _does_ , and Arthur knows it.

"To save my people," he murmurs. He feels no bitterness about it.

Merlin is still staring away from him, into the fire, and his thin face seems to glow from within, casting shadows under his sharp cheekbones.

"I will take your place," he offers.

Arthur shakes his head. This is exactly what he's expected from the loyal idiot.

"Merlin..." he begins, exasperated, and at that Merlin finally does look at him after all.

"What is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince?" he asks matter-of-factly.

Arthur pretends to think about it. "Well, a good servant is hard to come by," he muses.

Merlin gives him a disbelieving look. "I'm not _that_ good," he says flatly, and Arthur just cannot resist.

"True," he says with a small grin.

Merlin realizes that he's practically walked into that one and grins briefly, too. But only for a moment. The situation is too die for such levity.

"One thing," Arthur says after a lengthy pause. "Look after Guinevere. I want her to be happy in her life. She deserves that."

"Don't worry," Merlin is looking away from him again. "I'll make sure."

Because he won't allow Arthur to die, that much is certain. That would mean that Morgana would win, and Merlin is not about to allow _that_.

Neither of them notices Lancelot watching them from afar.

* * *

In the morning they finally come within eyesight with the Isle of the Blessed. It sits in the middle of Lake Meredor, barely visible on the horizon, shrouded in mist, a red dawn breaking behind it. They can see some tall towers or spires rising from it, black against the redness of the sky. It seems incredibly far away, well beyond their reach.

"The Isle of the Blessed," Arthur comments, rather unnecessarily.

"But how do we get there?" Elyan asks doubtfully.

Arthur shrugs. "Gaius said something about a ferryman..."

" _The_ Ferryman," Merlin corrects and points at the small boat approaching them, with a lantern hanging from its high, arched prow and a hooded and cloaked old man sitting crouched right behind it. "You better have a gold coin ready."

"What for?" Arthur wonders, but Merlin doesn't need to answer, because at the same moment the boat reaches the shore and a gnarled old hand reaches out from under the battered dark cloak, waiting for the fare with an upturned palm.

"You know where we are going," Merlin says quietly to the Ferryman, while Arthur is fumbling with his purse to find a gold coin and place it in that waiting palm.

The gnarled old hand closes around the coin and the boat turns on its own, lining up with the shore, so that the knights can get in. There is clearly magic in work, the old man is perchance a sorcerer if he can make his boat move without the use of a paddle, but Arthur cannot be picky about that right now. This is the only way to reach the Isle of the Blessed, so he is going to use it and that's it.

"What are you waiting for?" he barks. "Get in!"

The boat, guided by the sheer willpower of the silent Ferryman, glides noiselessly upon the still dark waters. Their journey is not half as long as they thought. They reach the Isle of the Blessed before it would become full morning, although the darkness still surrounding the Isle itself clearly comes from somewhere else.

 _Perhaps it comes from the tear_ , Arthur thinks.

High above them there is screeching and cawing – ravens or probably crows, but they can't actually see any of the birds. They are travelling on the canals of the Isle already; left and right the ruins of some ancient buildings, probably temples, cast shadows upon the water. The canals are filled with mist.

The boat now passes through a dark tunnel under one of the buildings and it finally moors in a small bay adjoining a pentagonal, stone-pawed courtyard with a well in the centre, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. Some of said walls have fallen so much that they can easily climb over them, relieved to have solid earth – well, stone, actually – under their feet again.

The screeching gets louder above their heads, and Sir Leon spots a dark, winged creature high in the blood-red skies. It most definitely doesn't look like a raven or a crow.

"What is that?" he asks.

Gwaine draws his sword, his face grim. "I really hope I'm wrong," he mutters, as the others follow suit. But he isn't, and he knows it.

"Wyvern!" Arthur cries out warningly as the winged beast flies down at them, rapidly like a falling rock. More of its kind follow, attacking the knights viciously. Percival gets slashed and falls to the ground.

"You are right," he yells in Gwaine's direction.

Merlin crouches down to hide his face as he whispers in the ancient tongue of dragons, a tongue older than the spells of the Old Religion – the only tongue dragons and their kin obey.

" _S'enthend' apokhorein nun epello-o-o!_ " he murmurs under his breath. He rises, his eyes glow briefly with the inner fire of his magic, and the wyverns turn away.

Gwaine looks after them with a confident grin. "See? That's how you deal with them," he declares proudly.

He has no idea about Merlin's interference, which is fine as far as Merlin is concerned. He doesn't want them to know – not yet.

"We need to keep going," Arthur warns them.

They continue their way to the centre of the Isle through other ruined buildings. Unfortunately, more wyverns fly overhead, and Merlin is unable to act. He is too visible right now.

"Sire, you must go on!" Sir Leon cries out. "We'll fend them off."

He gestures to Percival and Elyan to remain outside with them, to handle the wyverns.

"Good luck!" Gwaine calls back and hurries after Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot.

* * *

The four of them reach, at least the central square of the Isle. It is full day by now, but the square is shrouded in twilight, the tear clearly visible behind the altar stone. It is pulsing like a living thing, throwing up new waves of darkness by each pulse.

The cloaked figure of a woman shows up in front of the tear, as if taking shape from the darkness itself, holding a black staff with three claw-like appliances on top of it. Her deeply lined face is deathly pale in the shadow of her wide hood, framed by long grey hair.

Merlin recognizes her at once: it is the Cailleach, the gatekeeper of the spirit world.

"It is not often we have visitors," she says in a calm, somewhat hollow voice.

It sounds almost shockingly normal, as if they were sitting in the kitchens of Camelot, having tea. But Arthur is not in the mood for idle conversation.

"Put an end to this," he orders curtly. "I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds."

The Cailleach is clearly not impressed.

"It was not I who created this horror," she returns. "Why should it be I that stops it?"

"Because innocent people are dying!" Merlin blurts out. The callousness with which some magic users – or magical creatures – dismiss the suffering of the innocent still grates him every time.

Cailleach laughs maniacally. "Indeed?"

This is too much for Gwaine – the only one who does not know what the others are planning to do. With a mighty yell, he draws his sword and launches an attack at the Cailleach.

She hurls him back with a negligent gesture of her staff, knocking him out cold.

"Is this the best you can do?" she taunts them.

Lancelot makes a furtive attempt to move but Arthur stops him with a raised hand.

"I know what you want," he then says to the Cailleach.

She raises an eyebrow. "Do you? And are you willing to let me have it?"

"I'm prepared to pay whatever price is necessary," Arthur replies, ignoring Merlin's death glare.

A pleased smile on her face, the Cailleach beckons him with the index finger of her left hand. Without a moment of hesitation, Arthur starts walking toward her determinedly. Merlin follows, muttering under his breath, " _Forb fleoghe_ ".

His eyes glow briefly and the spell stops Arthur and throws him backwards, knocking him unconscious.

The Cailleach looks at Merlin and they both approach the altar stone, circling it slowly, keeping equal distance.

"So, Emrys, you choose to challenge me after all," she says. "Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your Prince?"

"It is my destiny," Merlin answers, his voice steady.

"Perhaps," the Cailleach answers in an almost grandmotherly manner. "But your time among men is not yet over, Emrys, even if you want it to be."

Merlin stares at her, confused. The Cailleach looks at her left, where Lancelot has crept up to the tear in the veil, and Merlin follows her gaze. Lancelot is standing at the brink. There is some horrible screaming on the other side of the tear, but the young knight doesn't seem afraid. He looks back at Merlin with a barely visible smile.

"I made a _vow_ , Merlin, remember?" he says.

Then he nods as if saying farewell and walks right into the tear with outstretched arms.

"No!" Merlin cries out in despair. "No! No! No! You mustn't!"

Without thinking, he runs after Lancelot to stop him, but it is too late. They both disappear in the tear, in the very moment when Arthur regains consciousness… just in time to see what they are doing.

"Merlin, you idiot!" He clambers to his feet with an angry shout, launching after his manservant before his mind would have caught up what is really happening.

The tear flickers and shrinks, then it is gone.

When Sir Leon, Elyan and Percival come in running, the courtyard with the altar stone is empty. Only Gwaine is still lying near one of the surrounding walls, unconscious. Of Arthur, Merlin or Lancelot there is no trace.

A moment later the tear reappears, flickering briefly, and spits out two people. Then it closes again, this time for good.

Sir Leon looks down at the two confused men and his mien darkens considerably because they are people he has never seen before.

Something must have gone horribly wrong, and he is determined to find out _what_ it was.

* * *

They stumble through darkness as thick and sticky as endless layers of cobwebs and are understandably shocked when – instead of the dark, mournful fields of the Otherworld – they come out into bright daylight... in the middle of a battle.

Typically, on the losing side.

Calling it an actual _battle_ might be an exaggeration, though. It's more like a tough dogfight between two fairly small groups of men – one besieging a fortified manor, protected by a simple wooden palisade, the other one defending it – but no less desperate for the limited size of their numbers. There are archers on both sides, fairly good ones, and the ones engaged in hand-to-hand combat use everything as a weapon they can lay their hands on: from swords and axes through their shields down to wooden ewers.

The people on either side are wearing clothes that seem a little odd, compared with the usual Camelot fashion, and some of the defenders are clearly not regular troops but simple farmers, protecting their home. Those who seem to be warriors have mail shirts or leather armour, and they are obviously not willing to take any prisoners.

On Merlin's left, a fair-haired young man with an honest, bearded face has already gone down, wounded by an arrow dangerously close to the heart. But it is not his own life he's concerned about.

"Arthur!" he cries out in a strangled voice. "Look out!"

And indeed, he's staring in the direction where the confused young Crown Prince of Camelot is attacked by several men, with only Lancelot to protect him.

In that moment something snaps in Merlin. He doesn't think, doesn't consider what he could – or _should_ – do... just reacts. Extending his hand, he feels the magic bubble in him like a hot spring, and his voice is hoarse as he casts his spell.

 _Ic her aciege anne windræs! Færblæd wawe! Windræs ungetermed – ge hiere! Ic ðe bebiede mid ealle strangnesse ðæt ðu geblæwest ond sierest strange!_ *

Immediately, a great force like a whirlwind sweeps over them, hurling the attackers against the rockside with broken bones and, in some cases, broken heads. Merlin shakes himself like a wet dog and, in for a brass, in for a sovereign, kneels down next to the wounded young man.

"Say still!" he says. "Removing an arrow is much more delicate work than smashing a few heads."

Fortunately, the arrow has gone clean through, so Merlin can break off the arrowhead and pull out the shaft. Then he begins to weave a series of healing spells that will stop the bleeding and prevent infection. The wound will need a proper dressing later, but he's doing what he can for now.

All the time, he can feel Arthur stare at him in open-mouthed shock. But he has no time to deal with Arthur right now. Explanations can wait. The wounded young man cannot.

When he is finally done he's so tired as if he'd fought through the skirmish these people – whoever they are – were fighting here… wherever _here_ is. The attackers have retreated in the meantime, leaving their dead and injured behind, and the defenders have begun to deal with the aftermath of the battle.

A lean, sandy-haired man of about forty, clad in the rough garb of a minor noble who lives in an outlying village to tend to his own lands, comes over and proffers Merlin his hand.

"Whoever you may be, sir, you saved us all, and for that you have our gratitude. "My name is Lucan; this is my manor, and I watch Bardon Pass for the King."

"Yeah, but where _is_ the King?" a big, burly warrior clad in leather armour from head to toe, asks in suspicion. "Where is Arthur?"

"And where is Leontes?" this from a blonde beauty, glaringly out of place in these rural surroundings. "What have you done with him?"

Merlin blinks in confusion. Several times. None of what they are saying makes any sense.

"What do you mean?" he asks back. "Arthur is right here – but he is not King yet. Not by title anyway, as long as his father still lives. And I don't know anyone named Leontes. Or do you mean Lancelot here?" he gestures at the knight who is watching his surroundings with equal confusion.

The big warrior shakes his head. "I don't know who this man is, but he's sure as hell _not_ Arthur. I wish he were; we'd be better off with him than with our so-called King."

Arthur finally recovers enough from his shock to get angry. "You dare to question my identity? All right, then; I challenge you to trial by combat. We'll see which one of us is lying."

The warrior remains unimpressed. "I accept. Make your peace with God – you'll meet Him shortly."

"Aren't the two of you forgetting something?" Merlin interrupts. "We are sitting in a besieged house. It would be reasonable to deal with the attackers first and return to your personal squabble when we're all safe again."

Lucan, the lord of the manor, sighs. "We cannot leave here. Bardon Pass is the main trade route into Camelot. If we lose control over it, word will spread of our weakness and our entire land could come under threat."

"So Arthur said," the warrior allows. "But we don't even know _who_ is threatening us."

"In that case, perhaps you should try to capture one of the enemy leaders and question them," Lancelot suggests.

The warrior and Lord Lucan exchange thoughtful looks.

"He's right," the warrior says. "The big, fat man leading the attack is still alive. We should capture him and drag him in. With a little torture we might learn who is behind this."

Lancelot grins. "Torture won't be necessary. I'm sure Merlin can… er… persuade him to tell you everything you want to know."

"Merlin?" echoes the warrior with a frown. "Merlin's not even here."

Now it's Merlin's turn to get angry. "What do you mean I'm not here? Are you blind or what?"

The warrior gives him a measuring look. "You may be a powerful sorcerer, I'll give you that, boy, but you are certainly not Merlin. I have known the man for the better part of a year, and I can tell beyond doubt that you're not him."

"And I've known Merlin for more than three years, and I can tell you that he is indeed who he says he is," Arthur replies; then, with an icy glare at his manservant, he adds. "Though how he has managed to hide the fact that he is a sorcerer in all those years is beyond me."

"You're not very observant, you know," Merlin comments breezily. "And in case you've forgotten, I _had_ to hide what I am, or your father would have had me decapacitated. Or burnt on the stake. Or whatever else hit his fancy at any given week. Forgive me for not wanting to die!"

"We'll discuss this later," Arthur promises stiffly, and it's not a promise Merlin is really looking forward to it. "Right now, it's more important to find out where we are, how we got here and who's trying to kill us."

Lord Lucan nods in agreement. "I'm all for the last part. Sir Gawain, my son will lead you along hidden paths to the enemy's camp tonight. Two of my men will go with you to help carrying back the prisoner."

The warrior nods, Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot look at each other in surprise.

" _Gawain_?" they ask in unison.

That sounds suspiciously like Gwaine, and that makes everything only more confusing.

~TBC~

* * *

* Here I summon every storm of wind! Sudden blast of wind, blow! You, strong and unstoppable storm of wind, obey! I command you with all my power to blow and devastate violently!


	2. Chapter 2: Leontes's Awakening

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Chapter 02 – Leontes's Awakening**

The last memory of Leontes is throwing himself in the way of an arrow, shielding his ungrateful young King with his own body. He does not remember actually being hit by said arrow, but it is safe to assume that the place he finds himself, suddenly and without any recognizable transition, must be the dark, mournful fields of the Otherworld.

Or so he thinks.

The more surprised he is when, among blood-churling shrieks, the absolute blackness seems to shrink speedily, giving room to the pale red light of early dawn. The fact that he's being glared at by a handful of very angry men with drawn swords, wearing identical mail shirts, only adds to his confusion.

Their leader, a blond, bearded man who reminds Leontes vaguely of Sir Kay, without any actual resemblance, touches the tip of his sword to Leontes's throat.

"Who are you?" he demands. "And what have you done to Arthur?"

His speech is foreign-sounding but well understandable, which makes Leontes doubt that he's truly dead, after all.

As for the selfish brat of a King, he can see Arthur from the corner of his eye: bruised and battered but very much alive.

"What do you mean?" he asks, more than a little confused. "Arthur is right there, where he fell when I pushed him out of the way of an arrow meant to kill him."

The bearded warrior gestures to one of his comrades to take over holding Leontes at swordpoint and asks another one for a torch, calling him Gawain... well, not exactly Gawain but something similar. It sounds more like _Gwaine_ , in truth, though that might be just his strange accent.

A warrior with a narrow, hawkish face and slightly long hair, who has no resemblance to Gawain whatsoever – the only thing they have in common is a short-trimmed beard – brings the required torch and holds it close to the boy King, who glares up at him defiantly.

"This is _not_ Arthur," he declares in the same foreign-sounding language that is nonetheless clearly some kind of English. "Just a scrawny kid that has no business running around with a sword meant for grown-ups, let alone pretending to be a King. He's an impostor, Sir Leon."

"And there's no sign of either Merlin or Lancelot," adds the warrior currently holding Leontes at swordpoint.

He uses the same foreign-sounding speech as the others. His bare arms are large like tree-trunks in the sleeveless mail shirt and his hair is short-cropped, like that of a slave.

Leontes is startled. Why would they look for Merlin, of all people, and who the hell is that Lancelot? Who are _they_ , for that matter, and on whose side might they be fighting?

"Merlin wasn't with us at the Pass," he offers carefully. "What good would he be for us? He's a sorcerer, not a warrior. Besides, he went with Queen Igraine to Castle Pendragon, to confront Morgan."

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say, because the swordpoint presses a little harder against his throat. Hard enough to draw blood.

"I'd think twice before accusing Merlin of something that could get him executed," the bare-armed warrior hisses. "He's just a boy and would never harm anyone."

"Not the Merlin _I know_ ," replies Leontes darkly because frankly, he never felt comfortable around the sorcerer and his shadowy agendas.

He's still mad at Merlin for pressing him into going to Bardon Pass with Arthur. He was a stout supporter of King Uther all his life but lately he's begun to ask himself if he was doing the right thing, supporting the bastard son against the legitimate daughter, just because Merlin said it had been Uther's wish.

"Besides," adds the false Gawain... Gwaine... whatever, bringing Leontes back to the here and now, "the Queen is dead. Has been for over twenty years. She died giving birth to Arthur."

"Not where I come from, she didn't," says Leontes, getting the feeling that something very odd is going on.

"Where would _that_ be and who _are_ you then?" asks the lead warrior whom the others called Sir Leon.

He is clearly a nobleman of some importance, and Leontes hopes that he can be reasoned with. Otherwise his life isn't worth a brass.

"My name is Leontes," he says carefully. "I am a landed lord of Britain and was King Uther's champion. After his death I pledged myself to his son, Arthur; for it was the King's wish that Arthur should become King after him, despite the fact that his daughter, Princess Morgan, had the legitimate claim on the throne. Or so Merlin tells us."

If he thinks he's persuaded the foreign warrior of his sincerity, though, he is mistaken.

"Interesting," Sir Leon says languidly. "If what you say is true, then how is it possible that I, who have served at the court of King Uther – who is very much alive, by the way – since the age of ten, have never heard of you? And _that_ ," he adds, pointing with his sword at the boy King, "is most certainly _not_ Arthur Pendragon. I've known our Prince since he was but a babe on arms – in fact, I _held_ him in my arms as a babe and was his sparring partner when he first learned to fight with wooden swords as a child –, so I would recognize him on sight beyond doubt. I do not recognize _this_ boy; therefore you are lying."

There are grim nods of agreement all around, and Leontes is beginning to worry for his life in earnest, when somebody calls out. "Sir Leon, wait!"

The new voice belongs to a warrior Leontes first thinks might be Ulfius but then sees that he's not. They have the same dark skin and short-cropped, woolly hair, but the stranger's features are more refined, even though his hands are rough and scarred, beyond the calluses one would expect from a warrior. Those are the hands of a man who's worked hard all his life; the burn marks suggest a blacksmith or a farrier.

"We are on the Isle of the Blessed, the very focus of magic," the dark warrior continues. "What if some sort of exchange has taken place? Perhaps the veil doesn't only open to the Otherworld but also to different worlds of the living. Worlds where things are... well, _different_ ," he adds, a little lamely. "I've never heard of this Britain on all my journeys across the Five Kingdoms, but what if it is a different version of our Albion?"

Sir Leon frowns, clearly not persuaded. "You know about such things, Sir Elyan?"

"Not really," admits the dark warrior. "But Gaius might. Or Master Geoffrey."

Sir Leon glances at the warrior named Gwaine. "What do you think, Sir Gwaine? You have travelled far and seen stranger things than the rest of us together."

Gwaine shrugs. "Let's take them to Camelot. We need to leave here anyway, and once at home, Gaius and Master Geoffrey can see into the issue properly."

* * *

The others agree and Leontes is finally released from being held by swordpoint – under the condition that he won't try to flee. He gives his word, since he wouldn't know _where_ to flee anyway. The dark warrior whose name is apparently Elyan is assigned to keep an eye on him. He doesn't mind. This Sir Elyan (whatever the title means) seems to be an honest soul – _and_ he reminds Leontes of Ulfius, another faithful and honest man.

Such are the small comforts of the memory of home when one is lost in a world not his own.

Arthur chooses to be an obnoxious brat again, refusing to go with them willingly and demanding that they let him go back. In the end, Sir Leon loses patience with him and orders the big warrior who held Leontes at swordpoint to tie the boy up and gag him, lest he'd get them in trouble with the ruckus he's making.

The big man, whom the others call Sir Percival, executes his orders with calm efficiency, ignoring Arthur's curses and struggles, as he would ignore the hissing of a kitten. Arthur glares at Leontes accusingly over the dirty piece of cloth shoved into his mouth, but Leontes ignores him, too. As he told Merlin before riding to Bardon Pass, he's all but done with Camelot in general and its snot-nosed King in particular, and wishes nothing more than to return to his village and leave his unfaithful wife behind to warn the King's bed if that is what she wants.

He is done with her, too.

As returning home doesn't seem to be an option right now, Leontes decides to cooperate, at least for the time being. If nothing else, that will allow him to move around on his own, unlike Arthur whom Sir Percival has thrown over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, having him hanging upside down as they navigate the narrow paths between the ancient ruins the purpose of which he can't even begin to guess.

The foreign warriors seem to know where they are going, though, so he decides to trust them.

After some turning and meandering along, they reach a pentagonal courtyard paved with grey, withered stone, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. They climb over the walls at their lowest point and come to a small bay, in which a narrow boat is moored. A lantern is hanging from its arched prow, and under it a hooded and cloaked old man is sitting. His face is shadowed by the hood beyond recognition; only his upturned hand can be seen, as he's clearly waiting for the fare.

"Do you have a gold coin for the Ferryman?" Sir Gwaine asks. "He won't accept anything else."

Sir Leon looks surprised… and not in a good way.

"Prince Arthur had all our coin," he realises.

Sir Gwaine pulls a face. "Fantastic! Now we're stuck on this cursed isle! I only have a few brass pieces. What about you, Elyan?"

The dark warrior shakes his head and so does Sir Percival. The warriors exchange helpless looks. The Ferryman remains unmoved, waiting with the patience of old stone.

"Here," Leontes fumbles with his drawstring purse and fishes out the only gold piece he's ever had; the one received at his wedding. "Take this."

He doesn't want to be reminded of his wedding anyway – the day in the very morning of which his bride chose to give her maidenhood to Arthur, only to lie to him in the evening – and he has the feeling that the sooner they get off this enchanted isle the better.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asks Sir Leon in surprise.

Leontes shakes his head. The ancient gold coin, a relic from Roman times, was a wedding gift from Arthur – the price of Guinevere's maidenhood, in truth, only he did not know at that time – and he is glad to be rid of it. If it will serve to get them to safety, all the better.

Sir Leon accepts then, nods his thanks and drops the coin into the Ferryman's gnarled hand, whereupon they are allowed to get into the boat, Sir Percival throwing Arthur in not too gently. Leontes gets in after Sir Elyan and is startled when the boat starts moving without any visible means to steer it. He would like to ask how it is possible but sees that the warriors are uncomfortable, too, and thinks it better to remain silent.

The boat passes through a dark tunnel under one of the ruined buildings and continues its way along a network of narrow canals, seamed by more crumbling ruins left and right. The canals are filled with mist, and high above them loud screeching and cawing can be heard. Leontes thinks they might be ravens or perhaps crows, though he can't actually see any birds.

The sound seems to unsettle the warriors, though.

"Dear me, not those cursed wyverns again!" swears Sir Gwaine. "I thought we have dealt with them on the Isle itself."

Leontes has no idea what a wyvern is but it's clearly something unpleasant. Sir Leon, though, shakes his head.

"I don't think we'd be in danger as long as we're in the boat," he says. "And they are said to be bound to the Isle; once we're out on the open water we ought to be safe."

"Your word in God's ear," mutters Sir Elyan, looking up at the now fully blue sky in mistrust. There can be seen some small, winged shapes high up – and they don't have the shape of birds, not really.

"What are those?" asks Leontes, Sir Elyan's nerves rubbing off on him.

"Wyverns," explains the dark warrior, not very helpfully.

Leontes rolls his eyes. "And what on earth _are_ wyverns?"

"Distant cousins of the dragons," supplies Sir Gwaine. "Only smaller and unable to breathe fire. Also, they are deeply stupid."

"Stupid, but deadly, and with an unhealthy appetite for human flesh," mutters Sir Elyan. "The whole Isle is infested with them," he pulls up the long, torn sleeve of his mail shirt and shows Leontes a deep gash upon his forearm that has already begun to show signs of infection. "Their talons are like meat hooks – razor sharp and filthy, too."

"You should show that arm a healer as soon as you can," advises Leontes. "I've seen men lose limbs because of an infected wound."

The dark warrior nods. "I know; so have I. Unfortunately, Merlin was our leech. The closest healer is his mentor, Master Gaius in Camelot. Which is another reason why I wish to get home, soon."

In the meantime they have cleared the Isle and the boat is now gliding upon the still, dark waters of a big lake that Sir Leon calls the Mere of Meredor. It is really huge as lakes go; were the water not smooth like the surface of a mirror, Leontes might believe they were at sea.

The shore seems beyond reach at first, just as a vague line on the horizon, but the strange boat glides upon the unmoving water as if driven by magic – and really, what else could speed it forward so steadily? Leontes thinks of Merlin and his supposed powers as a sorcerer and has to ask himself if the man is truly such a rare marvel when some hunch-backed old ferryman can move a boat full of grown men across a lake this large without breaking a sweat.

When they finally reach the shore, the Ferryman turns the boat around without a word… without a backward glance, in fact, and everyone seems relieved to part ways with him. Leontes doesn't blame them. The old man is an eerie sight, wrapped into silence like in a cloak, and there is no way to tell what else he is capable of.

Sir Percival places a bruised and battered Arthur under a suitable tree and vanishes in the forest that reaches down almost to the water. A little later he comes back, leading a bunch of horses on the rein. Leontes makes a quick count in his head. There are four warriors and seven horses. Three of the well-fed, well-groomed beasts have no riders. They must belong to the missing people: _their_ Arthur, _their_ Merlin and that Lancelot they've been speaking of.

Sir Leon leads a magnificent steed to Leontes.

"To reach Camelot, we have to travel several days," he says. "Take the Prince's horse; Lancelot's doesn't suffer strangers kindly, and Merlin's isn't worthy to carry a nobleman. Sir Percival, take the brat with you and see that he doesn't escape. We set off at once. Time is an issue right now."

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3: At Bardon Pass

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Chapter 03 – At Bardon Pass**

While they are waiting for nightfall, Arthur manages to get the situation at Bardon Pass under control. It doesn't even take long; nor costs it him much effort. Unlike his namesake from this world, the Crown Prince of Camelot is a seasoned warrior and an excellent strategist who has been trained for his future role as King all his life – and excels in that role, even in these strange environs.

He also knows how to delegate. He sends Lancelot – who, due to his origins, is familiar with the way the common folk thinks and speaks – to build, with the help of Lord Lucan's household, all sorts of crude yet effective traps, using whatever they can find in the outbuildings, to stop the attackers at various distances from the house itself.

He sends Merlin to look after the wounded. He assigns the big, burly warrior he still can't quite call Gawain to the task of placing the remaining archers in the key positions. Then he sits down with Lord Lucan and the dark warrior who strongly reminds him of Elyan and whose name is apparently Ulfius to learn more about this bewildering place where they had accidentally landed.

"Britain is not a united realm," Lord Lucan explains. "It consists of a number of petty kingdoms, the Kings of which are in constant conflicts with each other, over chunks of land, trade routes and the likes. Until recently, King Uther and King Lot were the most powerful ones, both aspiring for the title and role of the High King."

Arthur nods. The kingdoms of Albion may be stronger and more glamorous, but unfortunately, the situation is quite similar.

"So who won?" he asks.

"No-one," answers Lord Lucan with a sigh. "They are both dead. King Uther died first, leaving only one legitimate child behind: Princess Morgan, born to him by his first wife. Or so we thought. Until the sorcerer Merlin showed up with the King's writ that – according to Uther's wish – his bastard son, Arthur should follow him on the throne."

Arthur finds it interesting how everything is reversed here: Uther is dead, his daughter is the rightful heir, his son the unacknowledged bastard…

"Do your laws not allow a woman to rule?" he asks.

"They don't _forbid_ it," replies Lord Lucan cautiously. "Although as our Kings are little more than savage warlords, a Queen might have a hard time getting the realm under control. But that is not the true reason. King Uther always hated his daughter."

"Why?" Arthur is shocked. His own father might not acknowledge Morgana, but he's always doted on her… not that it would do him any good.

"Because she reminds him of his sin," Lord Lucan replies grimly.

"What sin?" Lancelot, returning for a drink of water, asks with interest.

"That he used sorcery to take on the shape of the Duke of Cornwall and so seduce his wife, the Lady Igraine. That's how _our_ Arthur has been conceived," explains Lord Lucan. "There are rumours that he had Morgan's mother, Queen Anna, murdered, just like Igraine's husband, so that he could claim her as his own. How much of this is true, I cannot tell, but Morgan was sent to a convent as a very young girl and not allowed to return – until shortly, right before the King's death."

"Your King must have dabbled in sorcery extensively if he could manage a transformation spell," comments Merlin.

He's finished treating the wounded and has joined them to listen to the tale. Lord Lucan snorts.

"Him, casting a spell? Ridiculous! The King couldn't even write, beyond his own name; most nobles cannot. Nay, that was all Merlin… _our_ Merlin, I mean, though I am a bit reluctant to admit any connection to him."

"Why is that?" is Arthur imagining things or does Merlin really sound indignant on his counterpart's behalf?

"Because he follows his own agenda and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process," replies Lord Lucan darkly. "No-one can tell what that agenda truly is, but we all have our doubts. They say, he is hundreds of years old, though he looks no older than I do. He took Queen Igraine's baby, right after his birth, and gave it to Lord Ector of the Marshes and to his wife to raise the boy along with their own son. Then, after King Uther's death he took the boy from his foster parents again, ordered the warriors dwelling in Castle Pendragon in the King's name to follow him and the Queen to Camelot – an old, ruined castle at the sea – and somehow cajoled them into pledging themselves to Arthur. I still don't know how."

"He told us it was the King's dying wish and showed us the writ," says Ulfius, the dark warrior. "Some of us can read; Leontes, for one. He checked the writ and confirmed that the sorcerer was saying the truth. It had the King's name under it, drawn by his own hand. We could not turn our backs on the King's last decree. I wish we could."

"Are you not happy with your new King?" asks Lancelot quietly.

Ulfius shrugs. "He's but a sorcerer's puppet; unlearned and untrained to be a leader of men. _And_ he has seduced Leontes's bride, on their wedding day. He's not better than his father was; but at least his father could keep the kingdom under control."

He is clearly disillusioned, which is a dangerous thing while waiting for a battle to happen, and Arthur does not know how to lift his spirits.

Lord Lucan shakes his head. "Would you prefer Morgan on the throne? Her first move after her father's death was to offer an alliance to King Lot, Uther's greatest enemy."

"And what other choice did she have?" returns Ulfius sharply. "She _is_ the rightful heir, and she was wronged. To whom else could she have turned for help, after we were ordered away, to leave Castle Pendragon undefended? To the sorcerer who has schemed to shove her to the side for twenty years, to put Uther's bastard on the throne?"

"You said it yourself: it was the King's wish and his hand-sign under the writ," Lord Lucan reminds him.

Ulfius makes a derogatory snort. "Yeah, but it's been _Merlin's_ plan from the beginning. We've been but pawns in his game – and I don't like being used. Not for a sorcerer's scheme."

"You're just pissed off because you had to leave the court and dwell in some godforsaken ruin," a bearded warrior whom the others call Brastias says teasingly. "You're afraid that the fair Vivian won't follow you to Camelot."

"Who is Vivian?" asks Merlin, wondering if King Olaf and his scatter-brained daughter may also have their counterparts here.

"Oh, just some serving wench whose ancestors were brought to Britain from the far South as slaves by the Romans," Brastias explains with a shrug. "She's served in Castle Pendragon all her life, and Ulfius has been sweet on her for just about that long."

Ulfius protests, but Arthur doesn't really listen to him anymore. His mind is preoccupied with more important things. Like how they are supposed to capture the enemy leader – and keep the manor house intact in the process.

"Are you done with the traps and fortifications?" he asks Lancelot, and the knight nods.

"We did everything we could with what little we had to work with," he says. "I'd suggest that we rest, sire. Nightfall is still about an hour away, and we'll need all our strength for this little manoeuvre."

Arthur realises the wisdom in Lancelot's words.

"You are right, Lancelot. I'll do as you suggest… after I've given our enemies something to think about," he adds with a dark little smile.

* * *

In the enemy camp Wallace, a thick-set, experienced warrior and the leader of the attack troops, stands, leaning on his sword, and watches the fortified manor house from narrowed eyes. Currently there are no men on the walls but he knows the battle is far from over yet.

He is particularly worried about the archers of Lord Lucan, who have proved to be better shots than expected – and about the warriors the boy King's brought with him. Even though their low numbers surprised him.

"I still can't believe that they came, exactly as Morgan predicted," he says. "That they would walk into such an obvious trap with their eyes wide open. A child would have seen through it."

Harwel, Princess Morgan's champion – dark, handsome and very obviously in lust with his lady – shrugs and grins.

"She knows her family well," he comments. "She swore her brother wouldn't ignore a lost cause."

Wallace shakes his head and scowls. "A lost case, you say? When this battle started, we outnumbered them, four to one. We've lost two thirds of our men in the first encounter."

Harwel shrugs again. "I warned you not to underestimate them. Morgan says they're highly trained."

"I know," Wallace replies sourly. "We'll have to keep them locked in until we can get more men, so that we can launch another open attack again."

"Perfect," Harwel grins. "A King to the slaughter. This is my way to Morgan. I'll deliver her the king's sword. She'll be on her knees to me in gratitude."

For his part Wallace seriously doubts that Princess Morgan would sink to her knees to _anyone_ – unless such a gesture would further whatever scheme she's working on – but he doesn't waste his breath on trying to sober up the besotted, delusional fool. He has a new strategy to work out, since the straightforward attack hasn't worked out… and he's got a bad feeling about this. The defenders of the besieged manor house have been suspiciously silent. He's sure they're up to something.

His brooding is interrupted by somebody appearing on the wall. It is a tall, fair-headed young man, carrying a great sword, but too broadly built to be the boy King. He is also wearing a knee-length mail shirt none of them has seen before: one made of interlinked steel rings, and a dark red cape embroidered with a gold dragon falls in heavy folds from his broad shoulders.

"Is that all you've got?" he calls out in a ringing voice that carries easily to the enemy camp.

It is the voice of a field commander, used to make himself heard and understood by the furthest positioned troops.

"This land belongs to your King. And we will protect it to the death," he adds warningly.

There is utter self-confidence in that statement, and Wallace grows cold with dread. He doesn't know who this warrior is and how he's managed to sneak into the manor house before their very nose. He only knows that had the boy King half the charisma and strength of personality this stranger displays, he'd follow Arthur to hell and back, too.

Harwell, in his madness, remains unimpressed, of course.

"They're taunting us, Wallace," he hisses. "Are you enjoying being taunted?"

Wallace, however, isn't ready to tumble headlong into another fight. Not before daybreak. Not with the unknown warrior within the walls. He shakes his head.

"I've sent for reinforcements," he says. "They're too good for us to attack just on level numbers. More so with that new player in the game," he waves in the direction of the wall.

Harwel all but pouts. "I promised Morgan I would take Arthur's sword from his dead body. I will not let her down. King Arthur dies at our hands. Here. Tonight."

 _Or we'll be slaughtered to the last man at the hands of his allies,_ Wallace thinks unhappily, but there's little he can do. He is in command of the men-at-arms, but Harwel speaks for Princess Morgan and thus has the deciding word.

"We live to serve Queen Morgan," is all he says.

Protected by a powerful invisibility spell, Merlin smiles grimly.

 _We'll see about that_ , he thinks; then he turns around and sneaks back into the manor house.

* * *

After nightfall, Wallace reluctantly gathers his remaining men and the reinforcements that have arrived and divides them in two groups. He sends the first group in as a distraction and keeps the better trained, more reliable men with him.

"Be careful," he warns them all. "They must have set up some traps inside. Watch your steps, lest you end up in a hole full of sharpened sticks. That would be a painful and very messy death."

The men nod grimly. They climb the outer walls, listening to any noise that could tell them the whereabouts of the defenders. No-one offers them any resistance, which makes Harwel's chest swell with stupid pride. He's sure they've beaten the defenders already.

Wallace's anxiety, however, grows with each new step. The whole situation smells more and more like a trap… and there has been no sign of the first group ever since they went in. He doesn't like it.

"It's been too long," he murmurs worriedly. Then he turns to the second group. "Your turn now. But look out for traps."

He leaves Harwel behind in the camp – doesn't want the overzealous fool to get them all killed out of sheer impatience – and leads the men personally as they approach the house. Suddenly, there are flaming arrows flying by them, hitting bales of straw that have obviously been piled up on the inner side of the palisade, trapping them in a ring of fire.

The men panic and stumble forward to escape the flames – straight into the thin rope that has been fixed at ankle-height, bringing them to fall, making them vulnerable. Two of them die on the spot, with arrows in their throats; the others scramble to their feet and run towards the house.

Wallace barrels after them, his worries momentarily overcome by rage.

They lose another man before reaching the house, and once inside, they are stopped by the strange warrior… and another one, clad in a similar mail shirt. That one may or may not be the boy King; the slender build would match, but they can't see his face. They both fight like demons, and Wallace's concerns resurface at once.

"Separate them from each other!" he barks, and his men understand the strategy at once.

Even so, they have a hard time to corner the two warriors, and another man falls, a thrown sword embedding itself in his chest. Wallace recognizes the sword, of course – who wouldn't? They've all seen it often enough. It is Arthur's.

"We'll end this, here and now." He says grimly. "Griffith, bring forth the bolos."

His lieutenant takes out the long, thin leather tongs, weighted with steel balls on both ends and throws them at the second warrior who may or may not be Arthur. The tongs wrap themselves around the legs of the warrior and he falls backwards.

"We've got him," says Wallace with grim satisfaction. He pulls the sword out of the dead man's chest and hands it to Griffith. "Take the sword to Harwel as fast as you can. I'll finish the boy."

Griffith scurries off with the sword and Wallace turns to the fallen warrior to give him the rest. The young man blocks his blow with his legs and jumps back to his feet. The light of the burning straw in the outside falls upon his face through the window and Wallace can see now that he's _not_ Arthur, after all.

Neither does he appear particularly frightened by the danger in which he finds himself.

"Merlin!" he calls out. "Don't you think this has gone on long enough?"

Wallace freezes for a moment because he knows all too well that the sorcerer is imprisoned in Castle Pendragon, together with Queen Igraine. That moment is enough for a previously unseen young man to step out of the shadows. He's almost painfully thin, just skin and bones, his ears are sticking out in an elfin way from under the thick cap of his dark hair.

"If you have played enough," he says breezily.

Then he raises his hand, his eyes turn molten gold and everything goes black for Wallace.

* * *

When he comes to, he's tied to a chair. Lord Lucan, the guardian of Bardon Pass is in the chamber with him, and so are the two warriors in the strange mail shirts, as well as the young man they called Merlin.

It is he who notices that Wallace is awake and alerts the others.

"Good," the blond warrior who challenged them on the wall says. "Now we can get some answers."

He stands in front of Wallace, a dagger in his hand. "Who sent you?"

Wallace shrugs, as well as it is possible when tied to a chair, since the battle is clearly lost. He only hopes that Harwel manages to get the sword to Princess Morgan in time, so that she can be crowned before the boy King resurfaces.

"What does it matter?" he asks back, trying to win time for Harwel.

"The blond warrior smiles menacingly and puts the danger to Wallace's throat.

"Oh, but it matters," he says softly. "Who do you fight for? Who sent you?"

"Oh, come on, Arthur, it's not so as if we didn't know already," the young sorcerer says impatiently. "I've heard them discuss it myself."

The blond warrior, who is decidedly _not_ Arthur, and Wallace can't understand why they'd call him that, shakes his head.

"We need proof, _Mer_ lin," he says in a sing-song voice. "And witnesses. No-one would accept your word for it. Less so as we're misplaced here and nobody knows us," he moves the dagger, so that its point nearly touches Wallace's eyeball. " _Who_?" he repeats silkily.

And Wallace collapses. He might be devoted to Princess Morgan to an extent but not far enough to sacrifice an eye for her if he can avoid it.

"Morgan Pendragon," he confesses.

The blond warrior doesn't look particularly surprised, as if this had been the answer he expected.

"What were your orders?" he asks, and Wallace sees no reason why he shouldn't tell everything. Less so as the sorcerer has obviously spied on them, unseen.

"Attack Bardon Pass," he answers. "Draw out the King. Kill him when he shows up to defend it," he pulls a face. "Those were Morgan's orders. Those Pendragons are a fucked-up family all right."

The boy King would probably hit him for that slander against his family. Or kill him, hot-headed little idiot as he is. The blond warrior, however, lets go of him with a mirthless grin.

"That we are indeed," he agrees. "And in more than just one world, it seems."

Then he turns to the lord of the house. "Lord Lucan, I believe we should take this… gentleman to Camelot, so that the people learn the truth about this attack against Bardon Pass."

The guardian of the Pass nods. "You do so. Take the King's warriors with you. I must remain here and keep guarding the Pass."

* * *

Griffith, in the meantime, has reached the camp and hands the King's sword to Harwel.

"Where's Wallace?" Harwel asks, frowning.

"Finishing off the King," replies Griffith. "He told me to bring you the King's sword. They have Arthur surrounded. He's alone in there."

Harwel shakes his head, not convinced.

"The banner still flies," he murmurs, "and Wallace hasn't returned. Arthur must still be alive; but we'll change that, soon."

He takes the sword, kisses it right under the hilt, then hands it back to Griffith.

"Take this straight to Morgan, with my compliments. Ride fast; I'll follow you. _After_ I've put a burning torch to the King's body."

Griffith nods and mounts his horse immediately. Harwel watches him ride off; then he turns around and heads for the house. It's time to get rid of the bastard King and make room for the legitimate Queen.

~TBC~


	4. Chapter 4: The Sorcerer's Ill Fortune

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Author's note:** I took some creative freedom by describing the throne room of Camelot. The differences to the actual Chateau de Pierrefonds are fully intended.

And yes, I know that – technically – Merlin wasn't in a prison cell but displayed on the courtyard of the ruined castle. Again, creative freedom. Do forgive me. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 04 – The Sorcerer's Ill Fortune**

His last memory is having passed out in his prison cell in Camelot, after Bridget's visit. Guinevere's mild-mannered cousin told him that Morgan's guards were all along the corridor and that she couldn't go anywhere outside the fortress. Neither could she help him.

She asked why he wouldn't break free. He tried to explain her that doing so he would never gain the trust of the people but he's not sure she has understood. Poor girl, she has her heart on the right spot, but she's not very bright,

Just like her cousin, Arthur's little whore.

And _that_ is what it comes down to: they need Arthur here. Only that he can't do a thing to get the boy King here right now. He's bruised and battered still from the enforced walk from Castle Pendragon to Camelot… though he seems to be able to breathe more easily nonetheless.

It takes him a moment to realize why: he is no longer immobilized by that cursed pillory.

Nor is he in a prison cell any longer, if the cold breeze upon his face is any indication. But how is that possible? Has Bridget managed to smuggle him out of Camelot, after all?

That would be a slight possibility. She might have found helpers among the people living in Camelot who still keep faith to their King. Morgan can't have turned _all_ of them around already.

But as he slowly, painfully pushes himself into sitting position, he realizes that he's not in Camelot anymore. Nor is he anywhere in the untamed woods surrounding the ruined castle. The floor under him is a dirt road, stamped hard and well-maintained (better, in fact, than any other road he's seen anywhere in Britain), framed by small houses and cottages, built in one row, each turning its shop front to the street.

He can spot the shop of an herbalist, that of a tailor, of a basket weaver… he clearly is in the lower town of a grand place, and the many-turreted white castle towering above him is proof enough for that.

Apparently, it is early morning here – wherever _here_ is supposed to be – as there are no people on the street and the shop windows are still closed, too. Dawn is just beginning to break as at the other end of the street he finally glimpses a small group of four people, wearing mail shirts and carrying burning torches. Swords hang from their sword-belts, but they seem to find it more important to have the torches, which he finds odd. He scurries back into the shadows till his back touches the stone wall of one of the houses, unsure if the armed men would prove friendly or a threat.

They are approaching slowly, careful to form a circle, with the torches pointing outward. What on earth may they be afraid of, he wonders, that they appear to need fire for their protection?

"No sign of the Dorocha here," one of them says in a language he recognizes as English, despite the rather strange dialect.

Where has he ended up and how did he get here anyway?

"And no dead bodies, either," another guardsman says; for what else could they be? "In fact, there haven't been any since midnight, and the Dorocha seem to be gone, too. Do you think Prince Arthur and the others have succeeded, Master Gregory?"

"I don't know, Morris," the first man, presumably the captain of the guard, though he appears to be younger than his fellow man-at-arms, replies. "Let's hope they have. I don't know how much longer the people of Camelot could have endured this terror each night. Let's search this street and the next one, and if we still don't find anything, we can return to the Citadel, I think."

They continue their search, so far not spotting a completely bewildered Merlin who can't make heads or tails from their conversation. They spoke of _Prince_ Arthur; yet Arthur has been King for almost a year by now.

And _this_ is supposed to be Camelot? Certainly not! Camelot might have its importance for a united Britain somewhere in the future, but right now it still is just a ruined castle at the sea, with his Great Hall lacking a roof and the vegetation all but having it taken over, after it was abandoned for hundreds of years.

And what the hell are those Dorocha? He never heard about them.

Merlin waits until the men are out of earshot before leaving his hiding place. He knows his best chance to reach the Citadel unnoticed is while the people of the lower town are still hiding in their houses in fear from their mysterious enemy.

Under normal circumstances he'd prefer to merge with the common crowd, to listen to the gossip and learn whatever there is to know without the need of asking any questions. But these people are too different; their clothes are strange, their speech is odd… He'd be spotted as an outsider at once, and he's got the uncomfortable feeling that outsiders are not very welcome here.

Wherever _here_ is.

* * *

He manages to reach the gates of the citadel without meeting anyone. Once there, though, he runs into an unexpected problem: while the gates are open already, they are also guarded. And not just by some random men-at-arms like back home.

 _These_ guards are big, grim-faced and armed to the teeth, with swords and halberds. Their steel helmets and mail shirts are adorned with the image of a rearing dragon. A symbol Merlin knows all too well – it is similar to, albeit not identical with the heraldic device of Uther Pendragon.

Can it be that he's ended up in Camelot, after all? Perhaps, by some foul sorcery of Morgan's, he's travelled forward in time, to an era when Britain has already been united under Arthur's rule? Or backward, to the time of the Romans?

The dark forces Morgan keeps dabbling in can cause strange and unexpected things.

In either case, he needs to enter the Citadel, and as he cannot slip in unnoticed – at least not without the use of powerful sorcery, and he doesn't dare to try _that_ , not knowing if it would work here at all – he decides for the direct approach. He walks up to the gate openly and asks for leave to enter… only to have the razor-sharp point of two halberds touch his chest warningly.

"Who are you?" one of the guards demands to know. "You are clearly not from here. What is your business in Camelot?"

That they've figured out that much already isn't really surprising. His clothes are way too shabby for someone from this place; besides, the guards probably know most of the townspeople well.

"My name is Merlin," he begins cautiously, for he cannot know if his reputation is known here and if yes, what kind of reputation it is. "I used to be the court sorcerer of the late King Uther Pendragon. Now I am the counselor of his son, King Arthur."

For some unfathomable reason, the guards seem to find his answer terribly amusing.

"The _late_ King Uther, eh?" the other one comments, grinning in a way that isn't suited to reassure anybody. "We'll see what he has to say about _that_."

"And how he'll find the idea of having a _court sorcerer_ ," the first guard adds with a grim smile.

Merlin doesn't understand why are they speaking of Uther as if he were still alive, but right now he has more pressing issues to deal with.

"Queen Igraine can testify my words," he says, somewhat testily.

The amusement vanishes from the men's face as if wiped off with a wet cloth.

"I don't know who you really are or where you've come," the second one says slowly. "But if you value your life, you don't mention the Queen in the King's presence. Nobody in their right mind does."

That sounds definitely odd. Why do they speak of Uther Pendragon as if he were still alive? Merlin decides to thread very carefully, until he learns more about what's going on here. If someone is pretending to be King Uther, he'll also be able to reveal the impostor at once. Should he have been thrown back in time, however – well, in that case he'll have to play his game by the ear.

The guards send an errand boy up to the Citadel for reinforcements and soon enough another two warriors arrive, wearing mail shirts, helmets and weapons of a similar fashion.

"Master Gregory ordered us to take him directly to the King," one of them explains, and the guards seem to be mildly shocked.

"The King has come forth from his chambers?"

"Morris says he's been anxious for news about his son," the newcomer explains. "Lord Agravaine tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted upon getting dressed and coming to the throne room in person."

"You shouldn't waste any more time, then," the guard advises. "King Arthur is not known to suffer those who make him wait kindly. Least so when it could be about his son."

* * *

This is clearly old news for the others, and so Merlin is led along a few narrow streets up to the many-towered white castle, the courtyard of which alone is larger than the Camelot _he_ knows. They climb a wide stairway of white stone, flanked by life-sized images of fully armoured, mounted warriors, enter the castle proper and come into the throne room, in which the whole Pendragon Castle Merlin knows would find place.

Paved with patterned marble and its high, arched ceiling covered with gold filigree, its sides seamed by tall, smooth pillars, the throne room appears to stretch into infinity – right to a dais, upon which two heavy, richly carved chairs stand under a double arch. High above the arch the life-sized statues of what have to be previous Kings of the realm stand solemn, silent watch.

In one of the chairs a tall, heavy-set man of middle age – supposedly King Uther – is sitting.

He is very different from the semi-barbaric warlord Merlin used to know under the same name. _This_ Uther Pendragon has clearly been born and bred to be King and rule competently – albeit with an iron glove – over his realm. His broad face is deeply lined, more due to recent suffering than due to his true age; his deep-set, pale eyes are sharp and inquisitive, and his heavy shoulders and strong arms reveal him as a skilled and experienced swordsman.

His clothes of soft leather and fine wool are beautifully made and richly embroidered; they speak of wealth and refinement. He is wearing an almost embarrassingly simple crown upon his high brow, barely more than a toothed golden circlet; a big sword in an elaborate sheath hangs from his hip… from his right hip, suggesting the fact that he is left-handed.

With his clean-shaven, simple face and short, thinning hair at first he appears like a benevolent uncle. But there is a cold, dangerous glint in his eyes that warns Merlin to consider him a deadly opponent.

"So, this is the man who pretends to be Merlin, of all people," the King says in a soft, cultured voice that has a coldly amused undertone nevertheless. "The man who has the cheek to state that he was _my_ court sorcerer."

His eyes are glittering in an odd manner that makes Merlin suspect that the man may be a little mad. Perhaps more than just a little.

Therefore the sorcerer decides to choose his words carefully.

"I used to be King Uther's courts sorcerer, yes," he replies. "And I watched over his son from afar while the boy was in foster care in Sir Ector's house. I also saw to that Arthur got the support of his late father's warriors after the King's death."

He keeps the facts of his more… _direct_ involvement to himself. No need for some suspicious strangers to know what a pivotal role he played – is still playing, in fact – in Uther's bastard claiming the throne.

"Do I seem dead to you?" the presumably mad King asks with a thin, unpleasant smile.

Merlin withstands the urge to shrug. "No, of course not, my lord, but I was not speaking of you…"

"You were speaking of King Uther," the King interrupts. " _I am_ Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot; and as you can see with your own eyes, I'm very much alive."

"I can see that, my lord," Merlin answers respectfully, fighting his own anger very hard. "However, I believe you are not the King Uther I used to know."

"That would be highly unlikely," the King agrees. "Otherwise you would not have been foolish enough to state that you were the court sorcerer. Camelot does not _have_ a court sorcerer. We do not _need_ one. In fact, the laws of Camelot expressly forbid the use of sorcery upon the pain of death. Whatever your scheme may be, you have chosen the wrong place to play it."

"I do not have any scheme," Merlin protests.

Which is the honest truth, even though it is a blatant lie at the same time. He has no scheme to play _here_ – wherever this place may be. Back home… well, that is a different game entirely.

"Why did you come here then?" an old man with shoulder-length white hair and a bent back, wearing a simple brown robe, asks.

He is standing on the right side of the King's chair, so he must be one of the trusted counselors here.

"I did not," Merlin says which, again, is the truth, hard to believe it might be. "I was imprisoned by Morgan Pendragon for supporting her brother's claim against hers… and woke up just outside this town. I don't even know where I truly am!"

The Kling looks at the old man on his right. "What do you think, Gaius?"

"I believe he is telling the truth, _sire_ ," the old man says carefully. "Or what he _believes_ to be the truth in any case. He may have been magically transported here. We know that there are powers that can pass through the veil between worlds at will. The Sidhe, for one; there can be others, too."

"Which means… what exactly?" another old man, this one bearded and more richly clad, asks with a frown.

"He may have come from a different Camelot; one where the King is dead and sorcery is accepted," the elder called Gaius explains.

The other old man raises a surprised eyebrow.

"That must have been some powerful magic then," he comments, clearly concerned.

"Magic," the King muses darkly. "It always comes back to the cursed magic. I know why I've outlawed it twenty years ago; I still stand to that decision," he looks up and glares at Merlin, madness glittering in his eyes again. "Guards! Throw this man into the dungeons – deep down where once the Dragon was kept!"

"But _sire_ , he hasn't done anything wrong!" the old man named Gaius reminds his King carefully.

"Not _yet_ ," the King returns darkly. "But he's admitted that he's a sorcerer; and I want him safely put away till I decide what to do with him – have him beheaded or burned on the pyre."

"What?" Merlin cries out, alarmed by the sudden violent turn of things. "You can't just have me executed without a trial!"

"I can and I will," the King replies coldly. "There's no need for a trial; you've openly admitted being a sorcerer and sorcerers get executed in Camelot. We'll just wait for the return of my son to make a proper example."

As wary as Merlin is displaying his powers, this time he has no other choice. The mad King would have him executed without having committed any crime (at least in _this_ Camelot), simply for what he is. Well, he'll give the madman a taste of real sorcery if proof is what he wants!

Focusing on the dark powers he has internalised during his long an painful training, Merlin raises both hands to cast the powerful spell – when suddenly there is blinding pain in his head, as if his skull would be split open, and everything goes dark.

* * *

Morris, the trusted elderly manservant of King Uther, pulls a cloth from his pocket to rub the heavy silver tablet, with which he has just knocked the foreign sorcerer out cold, clean again.

"He may be a sorcerer," he comments causally, "but he cannot be a very good one. Every hedge witch or wandering conjuror could have cast that spell before I would get to them… or spot me well in time."

"It does not matter," the King says grimly. "He _is_ a sorcerer, and he will die for it. Take him to the dungeon and chain him to the walls with the Dragon's chain. It's been enchanted to withstand any liberation spells. I'll deal with him when Arthur is back."

Gaius is careful _not_ to make any comment while the guards drag out the tattered sorcerer by his ankles. The fact that the Dorocha have vanished clearly proves that Prince Arthur – or rather Merlin, _their_ Merlin – has succeeded and the veil between the worlds has been sealed once again. So, in theory, they could expect Arthur and his handful of knights back, soon.

But Gaius also knows the price required either tearing open or sealing that veil, and his old heart is heavy with concern. Does the sudden appearance of a different Merlin from a different world mean that his great-nephew has passed through the veil and is with the dead now?

Or has he failed to hinder Prince Arthur in making the heroic sacrifice and is Uther bereft of his son, without knowing it?

"We are all looking forward to Prince Arthur's return, _sire_ ," he says neutrally. "I'll inform Lord Agravaine of your orders and call Gwen to take you back to your chambers."

"Nonsense," the King declares, more alive and more himself than he's ever been since freed from his own dungeons. "I've been hiding like a wounded bear long enough. It's time for me to come forth and reclaim my duties."

Gaius and Master Geoffrey de Monmouth exchange knowing looks. On the other hand, they are glad to see Uther returning to his old self. On the other hand, they both fear the moment they'll have word of the fate and whereabouts of Prince Arthur's party. Because even though they knew the guest has succeeded – that much is already given in evidence – they cannot be certain that Arthur himself has survived.

Should the Crown Prince have died, there would be nothing left to keep Uther alive. And once Uther, too, is gone, surrendering himself to grief, Morgana will have free reign over the realm.

No-one in their right mind wants _that_. They've already suffered a short period of her so-called leadership and abhor a possible repetition. Thus Gaius fervently hopes that Arthur has, indeed, survived – even if that means Merlin, _his_ Merlin, who's been for him like the son he never had, must have sacrificed himself to save their Prince.

Losing Merlin would break his heart; and Hunith's. But losing Arthur would break _Camelot_ ; and weak and selfish old man though he may be, Gaius knows _that_ would be the greater tragedy.

He and his niece would survive Merlin's loss, even if it would leave them empty and broken. Camelot, however, would _not_ survive the loss of its once and future King.

It is that simple.

~TBC~


	5. Chapter 5:The King is Dead Long Live the

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Author's note:** Please pay attention to the big, honking AU label on this product! Things will have a different turn from what they are in canon – either canon. However, some of the dialogue has been borrowed from the final episode of "Camelot".

Also, I don't really think that an abbess would have had the right to crown a King or a Queen like an archbishop. Not in the real medieval times. But "Camelot" had the nun crown Morgan (well, _almost_ ), so I had to come up with an excuse, even if it is a false one.

This story is not beta read. All mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **Chapter 05 – The King is Dead, Long Live the Queen!**

Ever since their arrival to Camelot on the previous afternoon, Morgan Pendragon has waited anxiously for news from Bardon Pass.

She's comet o her brother's stronghold, demanding to see him, demanding food and shelter for the refugees following her, accusing Merlin and Igraine of ransacking Castle Pendragon and of threatening her life. So far, her plans have come to fruition. Even the rumour that Arthur has run off with the wife of his champion has spread wide among his followers, undermining their loyalty.

That foolish little whore, Guinevere, proved to be very helpful by riding out after them on her own volition. But Morgan cannot make her next move as long as Arthur is alive.

She looks around herself in Arthur's chamber, which she has claimed upon their arrival. It is a fairly decent room for somebody housing in a ruin. It looks a great deal like their father's bedchamber used to look, but in Pendragon Castle – doubtlessly Merlin's doing. The sorcerer would pay attention to such small yet important detail – that the little bastard would occupy _the King's chambers_. Such symbols can be more effective than a thousand words.

Morgan picks up the royal cloak, thrown carelessly across the back of a carved armchair, hugs it close and buries her face in the fur collar. To her regret, she can no longer find her father's scent in it. It stinks of _Arthur_ now.

She drops the cloak again and strolls over to the heavy table, upon which the crown rests. It is a heavy, ugly piece: a wide circlet of grey, tarnished silver, seamed with leaves of the same material; clearly made for a man.

Made for her father. Usurped by her brother. It will be hers, soon.

She reaches out and _almost_ touches it when there is a sharp knock on the door.

"I said I didn't want to be disturbed!" she snaps, irritated.

The door opens and reveals Sybil, followed by a young warrior who's obviously coming straight from battle.

"I think you'll want to see _this_ , child," the nun says gently and ushers the warrior forward.

The young man comes closer and holds out a sword with both hands like some sort of offering.

"The king's sword," he says. "A gift from Harwell."

Morgan takes the sword and holds out in both hands, in the same manner. She recognizes it at once, of course. It is the same sword the sorcerer has brought for Arthur from somewhere. A sword of whose origins he never revealed – presumably for a good reason.

"It's done?" she asks tonelessly.

" It is," the warrior answers simply.

Morgan closes her eyes as if in shock; even without seeing, she knows that Sybil is looking on them in unsmiling triumph.

"It's a tragedy," she says, still playing the role of the loyal sister.

The young man stares at her in honest confusion. "It's what you _ordered_."

"Leave her to grieve her brother!" the nun interrupts sharply, ushering him out of the door.

A single backwards glance assures Morgan that the man would be removed from Camelot before he could betray her. Permanently.

She waits till they are out of earshot, still holding the sword in both hands. Then she presses it to her face for a moment before raising it in a smooth attack move trained into her by her sword-master in the tender age of her youth.

"This is _our_ time," she says in determination.

Her voice rings like the crossing of swords.

* * *

In the next morning she prepares herself carefully for the most important performance of her life. Every little detail must sit now. Vivian helps her into a long robe that is as sombre as it is stunning: a robe of grey, self-patterned silk that glitters like the scales of a fish ant the bodice front is richly embroidered with silver.

Morgan decides to wear her hair down, without any jewellery, to express the grief she doesn't truly feel. Vivian brushes her hair until it is smooth and shining, and the glance into the mirror reassures her that she looks exactly as she must. The dark smudges under her eyes, carefully applied with the help of ash, underline the pretence of her grief, while they make her blue eyes look even larger and brighter than they already are.

She looks breath-takingly beautiful. She has to. That is her main weapon in this fight.

The arrival of Sybil interrupts her contemplation. The nun looks concerned.

"Worrisome news my child," she says, keeping her composure with all her considerable strength of will. "The sorcerer is gone."

Morgan freezes. "How is that possible?"

"Sorcery, no doubt," Sybil answers grimly. "The pillory is still locked, and his chains are lying on the ground, untouched."

Has anyone spoken to him since our arrival?" Morgan demands.

"Guinevere's dim-witted little cousin fed him," the nun raises her bandaged hand to stop Morgan's outburst. "They've been watched all the time. Besides, she's not bright enough to break him out."

Morgan knows that herself; but whoever has helped the sorcerer to escape – or if he's escaped by his own means – she is _not_ about to back off. Not now when her goal is finally within reach.

"In that case," she says calmly, evenly, "we'll have to act fast, as long as we still can. Call the people to the Great Hall; for what's coming I'll need an audience. A big one."

For a moment Sybil looks at her in unsmiling pride. Then she whirls around and hurries off.

A short time later Morgan is walking through the crowded Great Hall, dragging Arthur's sword on the ground behind her. People bend their knee in respect as she passes by. If nothing else, she is the King's sister – for now – and as such, she is owed that respect.

Soon, she will have it – and more – on her own right.

Reaching the head end of the Hall, she turns around facing the crowd, and holds out to them the bloody sword with both hands.

"This is the King's sword," she announces in a low, sorrowful voice. "Just brought to me with news of his death."

She pauses, taking in the shocked murmurs of the crowd, the pale faces of Arthur's lackeys – Bridget's before anyone else – and adds in a convincingly broken manner,

"My heart breaks for my brother."

"What now?" somebody calls from the crowd as the first shock has settled. "Who protects us? Who will take the crown?"

"I cannot decide that," Morgan replies with downcast eyes.

She wished she had a mirror to watch her own performance. To make sure it is convincing.

"It should be you," Sybil says softly in the ensuing silence, and multiple voices rose in agreement.

"Yes," men and women murmur as if with one voice.

They are shocked and confused by the loss of the boy King, they desperately need somebody – _anybody_ – to take over for him and tell them what to do.

Morgan pretends to be shaken and moved at the same time; though she is neither. This is what she's been working at for the entire year.

"Your belief touches me, but I…" she begins humbly.

"There is no one else," Sybil interrupts. "You owe it to your father and your brother not to leave these people unprotected."

Again, there are murmurs of approval all around. Truly, people are so predictable! One who is smart and ruthless enough can play them like a harp.

"She's right," a man calls out.

"Morgan, you have an obligation to everyone here, to everyone in the land," Sybil continues in gentle persuasion. "Out of this darkness, the realm must know its first Queen."

Voices of agreement rise again and Sybil presses on. "Answer us, please."

Morgan looks around, almost pleadingly. "Is it truly your will? "

"Yes," cries of approval arise, and she inclines her head in a perfectly executed gesture of pretended humility.

"Then I accept, in my brother's memory, to carry on the Pendragon line."

The crowd cheers. Morgan and Sybil exchange faint smiles of triumph, although they know it is not over yet. It won't be over until the crown rests safely upon her brow.

* * *

For the rest of the day Camelot is bursting with preparations for the upcoming coronation of their new Queen. Morgan has made sure that the Lady Igraine is still in her chambers where she's had her brought and ordered her to be prepared for the ceremony. Having her father's concubine witness _her_ coronation would make her victory complete.

"I think I should pay her a visit," she muses. "There are a few things I have to tell her; and they are better told in private."

"Mater Sybil won't approve," Vivian murmurs with downcast eyes.

Morgan shrugs. "She's my counsellor, not my mother. And soon enough, I'll be _her_ Queen as well. She cannot dictate my actions."

And with that, she leaves Arthur's chambers, heading for Igraine's. This particular chapter in the history of the Pendragon line needs to be closed. Permanently.

The dowager Queen rises from her bed upon Morgan's arrival. She is wearing a bliaut of pale silk that is way too elaborate and precious for such primitive surroundings. Unfortunately, it is also quite unflattering making her look her age… and beyond.

Morgan gives her a measuring look.

"Hmmm. I picked that out for you. You were looking a bit dishevelled," she smiles coldly. "You must look your best on the coronation of the _rightful_ heir of the Pendragon line, after all."

"You will _never_ be Queen!" Igraine replies. "You can give birth to a King, or you marry one, but you won't ever get that crown."

Morgan chuckles in cold amusement. "Watch me! In fact, you will get the chance to do so."

She knows that Britain never had a Queen before; but again, there was never a daughter from the royal line versed in the dark arts, and Igraine knows it, too.

"Why did you take _my_ face?" she asks suddenly, referring to their previous encounter.

Morgan takes a seat in a regal manner. "I asked myself that same question. It wasn't my choice, but now I understand why it happened. You're the birth of all this," she adds darkly.

Igraine shakes her head in pity; it is infuriating. "You poor child. What happened to you these years?"

Morgan rises from her seat. "What _happened_ is that you turned my father against me. Until _you_ came, he loved me without question. And then you and your bastard child had to ruin everything."

Igraine shakes her head again. "You _never_ understood."

"It doesn't matter now," Morgan says with eerie calm; she's come this far, she cannot turn away from her chosen path now. "You look beautiful, my lady," she adds after a lengthy pause.

It won't take long now.

"What do you want from me?" Igraine is now truly frightened; good. She should be.

Morgan leans so close that their cheeks nearly touch and whispers in her ear, "A slow death."

She raises a hand and lightly scratches Igraine's cheek with the steel thorn hidden under the stone of her ring. Igraine yelps in surprise at the slight, barely perceivable pain; a thin line of blood trickles down her lean face.

"Shh," Morgan coos, almost as if soothing a frightened child. "It's all right. You see, the poison is fatal. But it will take some time for it to spread through your body. You'll be able to witness my coronation; my final triumph. Don't worry; you'll feel no pain… well, not too much."

She reaches out to swipe the fine trickle of blood from her stepmother's face with her thumb. "Shh, Queen Igraine. Look at you now – that face my father loved enough to banish me. We cannot have it all soiled, can we?"

"He didn't banish you!" Igraine sways ever so slightly as the poison begins to spread. "He was going to have you _killed_ like your mother. I sent you away to keep you safe!"

Rage floods Morgan's mind like a red wave and she gives her stepmother a violent shove backwards. "You're lying! "

Igraine holds herself upwards by leaning against the wall. "I saved you!"

"I don't believe you," Morgan turns away coldly.

"I took pity on you!" Anger flashes in Igraine's eyes. "You will _never_ be Queen!"

She knows what will hurt her stepdaughter most and she _wants_ to hurt her.

For her son

For Merlin.

For herself.

"Yes, I will," Morgan replies icily. "And you'll be there to bear witness and you won't be able to do a thing to stop me."

"I'll tell everyone that you've poisoned me!" Igraine threatens.

"You can try; no-one will believe you," Morgan answers in cold amusement. "You won't be showing any sign of the poison until the day after tomorrow, or even later; and by then it will be already too late. By then, I'll already be Queen and all will believe that you've died from grief over the loss of your son; and your lover."

She whirls around and leaves, instructing two of her own maids to watch over the dowager Queen and escort her to the ceremony in due time. She wouldn't trust Bridget – or any other woman from Camelot – _not_ to help Igraine to escape.

* * *

The disappearance of Merlin has made Morgan's people speed up the preparations for her crowning in the unconscious worry that the sorcerer might reappear just as unexpectedly and prevent the ceremony from happening. The kitchen maids are working frantically to ready all the food in time, and the Great Hall is decorated in a way it hasn't looked for hundreds of years.

Long trestle tables are brought into the Hall, for the feast afterwards, and two men carry in the ceremonial throne: an ornate chair carved of heavy oak, covered with gold-embroidered brocade and cushioned with folded throws of fur. The men place the throne, together with its dais, at the head end of the Hall. The high table, where the Queen's most privileged guests are seated, will be set before the throne after the ceremony.

In Arthur's chambers Morgan is being dressed for her great moment. First comes a shoulder-free, plain black undergown of heavy, figured silk. Then the overrobe, also black, richly embroidered with gold thread and adorned with paper-thin applications of large golden flowers. Her head is bare and her hair, once again, down, brushed to shiny perfection.

"Is this it?" she asks Sybil, who is standing at her side as always. "Have I done it?"

The nun touches her cheek with her bandaged hand – the one she had burned as atonement, to help Morgan save face – while holding the ugly crown in the other one. "Yes, my child."

Morgan touches the bandaged hand in gentle apology. "This… this was everything."

The nun nods in understanding. She's the only one who's _always_ understood.

"I know," she says; they smile at each other. "Now take your throne, my Queen."

Unbeknownst to them, a tight-lipped Igraine is escorted to the Great Hall by two of Morgan's most faithful guards at this very moment.

Morgan enters the Great Hall, with the crowd murmuring in her wake. She knows she looks radiant and enjoys the admiring looks that are following her. She walks to the throne, takes it regally and sits under the Pendragon emblem – the black dragon on the round, blood-red shield – with her hands on the armrests. She has to curb the urge to grab those armrests with all her might, lest someone would try to take them from her.

Sybil comes around the throne, steps onto the dais behind her and holds the crown over her head.

"Will you swear to rule this realm according to the laws and customs of its people, and to administer justice with mercy?" she asks.

Crowning a King or a Queen is a ceremony that usually would be performed by the archbishop; but as the abbess of an independent monastery, Sybil has the right to do the same. In theory. It has never happened in Britain's history… until now.

"I will," Morgan replies in a steady voice, proud to come into her birthright on her own, in spite of a shady sorcerer's manipulations.

"Will you uphold too the laws of God and the true teachings of his gospel?" Sybil continues.

Morgan suppresses a thin smile. The practices they have both used to ensure her ascend to the throne were not even marginally Christian; but admitting that would be unwise. Besides, she _can_ work around the laws of the Church, upholding them in front and do as she pleases in the background.

"I will," she promises in a clear, ringing voice.

"With this crown, I anoint you, Morgan, First Queen of the Britons," Sybil announces and lowers the crown onto Morgan's head.

This is the moment towards which they have worked for the whole last year. The clumsy, ugly thing is heavy upon her brow, and she knows it will be a burden to bear for the rest of her life, but this is a price she's more than willing to pay.

She is Queen of Britain now, and no-one can take that from her. Ever.

Before she can rise to speak to her people, though, a single person's slow, demonstrative clapping can be heard, and the crowd parts to give way to a group of grim-looking men. She recognizes Lord Lucan, the guardian of Bardon Pass, accompanied by Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, and the big, uncouth warrior named Gawain, who's trained Arthur's ragtag band of men to a unit of excellent warriors.

The other three, however, are unknown and strange-looking.

The one still clapping with his gloved hands, obviously the leader of them, is a big, blond young man, clad in a mail shirt and wearing arm and shoulder plates of reinforced steel in addition. His long cloak is dark red, emblazoned with the image of a gold dragon. He is handsome in his boyish way, with the heavy shoulders and strong arms of an experienced swordsman. The long sword hanging from his hip emphasizes the impression.

The one on his left is similarly clad and armed, yet dark-haired and more slenderly built. His smooth, spare movements speak of an experienced fighter, too – and a good one at that.

The third one is thin like a twig, almost translucently pale, with his ears sticking out, elf-like, from his unruly mop of coal black hair. His thin face is all big, dark blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. He is the only one not wearing any weapons, just a tattered brown jacket and a ridiculous red neckerchief.

"Well played, milady," the big, blond warrior says, still clapping. "I must congratulate you to the excellent scheme with which you managed to reclaim your birthright. But… don't you think that arranging an attack at your own borders just to get rid of a usurper goes a little too far?"

Shocked murmurs arise among the crowd, but Morgan is not so easily intimidated. She's dealt with more dangerous men than this stranger; with King Lot, for example, to name just one of them.

"Who are you to accuse me of such crimes against my own people?" she asks coolly. "I hope you have solid evidence to prove your bold accusations."

"Unfortunately, your man Wallace did not survive the interrogation. But he _did_ confess before his death that _you_ were the one who gave the orders to attack Bardon Pass," Sir Kay blurts out angrily. "You wanted Arthur dead!"

"Arthur was a bastard and a usurper; and it was the sorcerer who led my father's hand when he signed the writ that made Arthur his heir," Morgan declared icily; then she turns to Queen Igraine. "Tell them! Tell them the truth!"

There is a long, bleak silence; then Igraine nods weakly.

"She is right. Uther was dying; he did not even know what… was happening to him when… Merlin took his hand, together with… the quill and… signed the writ for him," she pauses, trying to overcome her weakness; then she looks at the stranger pleadingly. "Is…is my son truly dead?"

"I do not know," the blond warrior admits. "I think not, though. We believe he is now in the place where _we_ used to be before being taken by some unknown force."

"What place?" Morgan demands. "And who _are_ you?"

"Camelot; a different Camelot than yours," the blond warrior replies. "And I am Arthur Pendragon; though not the one you know."

There is shocked silence in the Great Hall; then Lord Lucan cleans his throat.

"This is a strange tale indeed; I think we should sit in council and discuss in private what might have happened and what we should do."

Before anyone can answer, however, Queen Igraine sways on her seat and fall to the ground, unconscious.

~TBC~


	6. Chapter 6: Leontes in Wonderland

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Author's note:** Do forgive Leontes for his thoughts about Gwen. He's still dealing with _his_ Guinevere's betrayal and is having a hard time about it.

* * *

 **Chapter 06 – Leontes in Wonderland**

The Camelot they are taken to has nothing in common with the pathetic ruins, half-swallowed by vegetation, in which they are housing at home. _This_ Camelot is worthy of being the seat of a great King. It far outshines even Castle Pendragon, which counts as the finest keep back home.

At least a dozen towers seam its high, cranellated walls that surround the spacious inner courtyard: high, round ones with thick walls, serving the defence of the Citadel, and more slender, quadratic or octagonal ones, belonging to the actual castle, which has a wide stairway of white stone leading up to its front gate, with larger-than-life statues of earlier Kings or heroes on either side.

And the citadel is surrounded by the lower town, a place brimming with life, where, apparently, the common folk lives. It is the biggest place Leontes has ever seen, despite having travelled all over Britain on King Uther's behalf.

As they ride through the gates of the Citadel, under the deadly spikes of the portcullis, a man clad in finely cut clothes in black and dark purple comes to greet them. He is of middle age, with a broad face, dark eyes and slicked-back, wavy dark hair, and clearly someone of importance, which his sombre yet rich garment unmistakably shows.

The finely made sword on his hip seems as if it were worth more than all Leontes's belongings counted together.

"Sir Leon," he greets the lead warrior with a placid smile. "I presume your quest has been successful? The Dorocha have vanished and peace has returned to the kingdom."

Sir Leon sighs. "That is true, Lord Agravaine, yet the price was a high one. We have lost our prince, Sir Lancelot and Merlin… or, at least, seem to have exchanged for _them_ ," he gestures with his gloved hand at Arthur and Leontes.

"Interesting," Lord Agravaine, clearly one of the court nobles, says calmly. "And this snot-nosed presumably pretends to be my nephew, doesn't he?"

The man is Arthur's _uncle_? Leontes is baffled; he never knew either King Uther or Queen Igraine to have had any siblings. Perhaps here _that_ is different, too.

Sir Leon is just as baffled as Leontes. "He does; but how can you know that, my lord?"

Lord Agravaine shrugs his heavy shoulders that reveal him as an experienced swordsman.

"A man was found, just outside the town, insisting that he was _Merlin_ – though he's old enough to be the father of Arthur's servant boy. He was stupid enough to use sorcery to escape when brought before the King, but if he _is_ a sorcerer, he cannot be a very good one. Morris hit him over the head with a heavy tray before he could have finished casting his spell."

The returning warriors giggle, imagining _that_ , despite their grief, and Lord Agravaine continues.

"In any case, he's waiting for his trial and execution in the dungeon," he turns to the nearby guards. "Throw in the little impostor, too, but far enough so that they won't be able to see each other… _or_ to speak with one another. I'm sure the King would _love_ to speak with him later."

The guards drag a cursing, kicking Arthur away. Leontes is tempted to intervene, but the warning prank of Sir Percival on his forearm holds him back. As soon as Arthur is dealt with, Lord Agravaine turns to Leontes.

"And who are you supposed to be if I may ask?"

"My name is Leontes," he says simply. "I was King Uther's champion and am now one of his son's supporters."

He wonders how many time he'll have to tell this yet, and if anyone will ever believe him. Which doesn't seem likely – not that he would blame anyone for it. He can hardly believe the whole thing himself.

"We think that some sort of exchange took place when the Veil between worlds was closed," Sir Leon adds hurriedly. "Prince Arthur, Sir Lancelot and Merlin were gone, and we got these two instead. And an older Merlin, who's a sorcerer, it seems. We hope that perhaps Gaius or Master Geoffrey can shed some light upon the events."

Lord Agravaine nods thoughtfully.

"Very well. We'll see into the issue as soon as you've rested a little. For Sir Leontes, as he's not impersonating anyone we know, I'll arrange guest quarters in the Castle."

"Just Leontes, please," he says, but Lord Agravaine shakes his head.

"You are clearly a knight and a nobleman, sir; and here in Camelot we pride ourselves for addressing everyone according to his proper rank and status.

* * *

They are taken before the presence of the King and Leontes cannot help being impressed. He used to be the most faithful vassal of _his_ Uther Pendragon, but as he's looking at his late lord's counterpart, he has to admit that _this_ is a King – and then some.

He bends his knee almost on instinct, so strong is this King's commanding presence.

"My lord," he murmurs respectfully, and the King nods in appreciation.

"At least this one has manners," he says to Lord Agravaine, who is watching them from his place on the left side of the high chair. Then he turns back to Leontes. "So, Sir Leontes, I understand that you used to have a similar position to our Sir Leon, who is First Knight in our court, where you come from."

"Yes, my lord," Leontes answers. "I was King Uther's champion… that of _my_ King Uther, that is… and after his death that of his son, Arthur, since it was my King's will that not his daughter should rule after him but his previously unknown son. Even though she was the eldest and he born out of wedlock."

A shadow of intense pain flickers through the King's face for a moment, as if he would relive bad memories. Then he collects himself again and continues his questioning.

"How did you know that your King wanted his bastard son instead of his legitimate daughter? Did he speak to you about it?"

"No, my lord. The sorcerer Merlin showed us the writ with the King's signature under it. I am lettered and I knew my King's hand; it _was_ his signature."

"By Merlin you mean the unwashed sorcerer I have in my dungeons, I presume" the King says, and Leontes nods, albeit a little uncertainly.

"There is only one Merlin that I know, my lord, and your description fits that one; though sometimes I wish I wouldn't know him. He pretends to be on our side, yet he has his own agenda; and no-one can tell what that is."

"That's the result of dealing with sorcerers," the King says darkly. "You have made a great mistake by _not_ banning sorcery in your realm."

Leontes shrugs. "It was not mine to decide; and I presume he did have his uses for my King once."

"They all seem to have their uses… at first," the King says, some deep, very old hatred burning in his eyes. "But the price for their uses is high… too high. And they _all_ have a hidden agenda, none of which is good."

"Sorcery is outlawed in Camelot," Lord Agravaine adds. "Has been for the last twenty-some years, in fact."

Leontes nods again. "Sir Leon has told me; and I can't say that I disagree," he adds, remembering the harm both Merlin and Morgan's dabbling in the black arts has caused in less than a year.

The King, too, nods in satisfaction.

"You are a wise man, Sir Leontes. Should you be unable to return home, you shall be always welcome in my court. Now, do tell me: is the obnoxious youth you were found with truly your King?"

"God help us, but he is!" Leontes sighs wearily.

The King leans forward in his chair. "This is a tale I want to hear, I need to know where my son has ended up and what can he expect. Tell me everything!"

And so Leontes spends the rest of the day in King Uther's presence, telling him in great detail what has happened in _his_ Britain since _their_ Uther's death: the war with King Lot, the schemings of Princess Morgan, his own marriage, the snot-nosed boy King seducing his bride in the very morning of his wedding and the events that led to the struggle at Bardon Pass.

"And then we found us on that enchanted isle without forewarning, staring right at the swords of Sir Leon and his men pressed against our throats," he finishes.

The King shakes his head in exasperation.

"I shall never say a word against Arthur and his choice in women again," he swears. "If only I can get him back somehow. So you believe an exchange has taken place?"

"That is what your warriors seem to believe, my lord, and it does make sense," Leontes replies slowly. "Arthur, Merlin and I have ended up here; and your people are missing _their_ Arthur, _their_ Merlin and someone called Sir Lancelot, It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise."

The King nods absently. "I'll consult Gaius and Master Geoffrey about the possibility of reversing the exchange," he announces. "Lord Agravaine, see that proper chambers are arranged to Sir Leontes."

Lord Agravaine bows. "It's already been taken care of, _sire_. What about the youth and the sorcerer, though?"

"Leave them in the dungeons," the King orders. "The boy deserves a lesson; we'll let him out when he's learned manners and a little humility."

"And the sorcerer?" Lord Agravaine asks.

"Him, we'll execute," he King replies coldly. "The law is the law; even for visiting strangers. He tried to cast a spell in the throne room, before the eyes of all. We won't need a trial; we have the evidence. I just need to decide about the means of the execution."

Leontes won't exactly grieve for the sorcerer, but such merciless pursuit of everything magical makes him uncomfortable.

"He couldn't have known sorcery was outlawed here," he tries.

"He did try to attack the King with a spell, though," Lord Agravaine says. "Leave the sorcerer to us, Sir Leontes; he is no longer your responsibility. Come now; I'm told your chambers are ready. A bath, some food and a good night's rest will do you a wealth of good."

* * *

Leontes is shown to guest chambers that are more luxurious than those of the late King Uther by a woman who appears to be a chambermaid. At least she wears the usual kirtle and undergown he saw the passing serving wenches wear… although made of much finer cloth, and the undergown must be very tightly laced, as it nearly pushes her breast out of her generous cleavage.

Other than that, she's rather on the short side, dark-skinned and fairly unremarkable. Small wonder that she feels the need to push her only assets into the eye… quite literally, in fact. Her best features area the thick mane of dark, wavy hear, which she wears unbraided, and the large, doe-like brown eyes.

She leads Leontes around in the guest chambers, shows him where the privy is and explains him how to ask for a bath, should he want one. Then, instead of leaving him alone, she looks up him through her lowered eyelashes beseechingly.

"Forgive my impudence, my lord, but can you tell me what happened to Prince Arthur?" she asks.

" _King_ Arthur has been thrown into the dungeon because people here think him an impostor," replies Leontes coldly, giving the royal title particular emphasis.

He may have his issues with the boy King, but he's also sworn fealty to him, and that means he has to protect Arthur, no matter what. Especially in this strange environment where the kid has no-one else to count on.

The thought that these people managed to knock _Merlin_ out cold, in the middle of casting a spell, is not entirely comforting.

The maidservant shrugs. "Well, he is not _our_ Arthur, that is for sure. I'd like to know where our Prince has gone… we all would."

"If there was an exchange indeed, then he's probably fighting for his life at Bardon Pass, together with the two who've vanished with him," says Leontes dryly. "That is what _we_ were doing before ending up here… wherever _here_ is. But what concern is it for you? Who _are_ you anyway?"

"I used to be Lady Morgana's maidservant," she explains. "My name is Guinevere, but people usually call me Gwen… save for Arthur, that is. I'm also the older sister of Sir Elyan."

" _Guinevere_?" he repeats, flabbergasted.

He didn't expect to find the counterpart of his wife here; not that they'd have much in common, save their unhealthy interest for their respective Arthurs. _His_ Guinevere is a stunning beauty, a golden goddess, a lady nobly born. This one is a lowly servant, and not even a particularly pretty one, despite her pitiful attempts to look seductive.

What this world's Arthur might see in her is beyond Leontes's understanding.

"Yes," she answers, a little warily. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," he replies, regaining his composure. "You just happen to share a name with my wife, is all. With my _unfaithful_ wife."

That, for some reason, seems to make her uncomfortable, and she hurriedly excuses herself. Leontes is glad to see her gone; she's awakened memories he'd rather forget.

 **~TBC~**


	7. Chapter 7: Reconciliation

**Magic Mirror**

 **by Soledad**

 **Chapter 07 – Reconciliation**

The servants take Queen Igraine to her chambers in a great hurry and lay her on the bed. As this world's Camelot doesn't have a physician, Arthur volunteers Merlin's services as a healer.

Watching from the background, Morgan is slowly becoming anxious when the dark-haired boy with the elfin ears – who is called _Merlin_ , of all possible names! – slowly lets his bony hands glide and inch or so above Igraine's body, his blue eyes turning molten gold as he whispers something barely audible under his breath. She recognizes a spell when she hears one, and she fears the boy sorcerer might discover the poison.

As it turns out, her worries are not ungrounded.

"She's been poisoned," the boy Merlin finally announces. "And it's not just any poison; it has been magically enhanced. I can feel it spread through her body; it has been designed to kill her _slowly_."

"Can you stop it?" the blond warrior calling himself Arthur Pendragon asks.

The young sorcerer shrugs. "I can stop the _spreading_ of the poison. I cannot undo the damage it has already done, though. I'm afraid her health will never be the same again."

"Then do it!" the blond warrior orders. "She's better off sickly than dead."

The boy named Merlin spreads his long, pale hands over Igraine's body again. Once more, his eyes turn gold, and he whispers a few powerful words. Igraine's skin takes on a sickly greenish hue, showing clearly how far the poison has already spread; then she begins to sweat it out in the form of a smelly green goo.

"Bring us water!" Bridget orders.

To everyone's surprise, it is Morgan's quiet, dark-skinned attendant, Vivian, who moves first, bringing a bowl of warm water and a rag, washing away the poison from Igraine's skin gently.

"Take care that none of it gets into your eyes or mouth, or anywhere you might have a cut, no matter how small it is," Merlin warns her, his eyes still glowing. "This seems to be a poison that spreads by the way of bodily fluids; blood, before all else."

Vivian nods wordlessly and leaves with her head bowed, avoiding everyone's looks. Merlin releases a long, shuddering breath. He looks tired, as if the fighting of the poison had cost him a great deal of strength.

"I'm glad it worked," he says in obvious relief. "I am passable as a healer's apprentice, but lousy at healing magic."

"Oh, I wouldn't agree with _that_ ," Sir Kay protests. "I'd be dead without you! You are a great sorcerer, greater than any I've seen before."

"The only one you've seen before is _our_ Merlin," Ulfius comments dryly. "And _he_ would have left you behind, dying. I say we're better off with this one as sorcerers go."

"I'm not a sorcerer," young Merlin replies tiredly. "I'm a _warlock_."

Ulfius shrugs. "So, what's the difference?"

"I was _born_ with magic," Merlin explains with the forced patience of someone who's had to do this uncounted times. "I never needed to _learn_ it."

For a moment Morgan feels intense envy towards the skinny boy, remembering all the pain and strength and effort _she_ had to bring up to learn her arts. She knows that _their_ Merlin has gained his powers the same way; for the price of blood and sweat. That fact alone shows how different, how… _alien_ these three are. She's never heard of anyone born with natural magic… if there is such a thing in the first place.

"But she _will_ live, won't she?" Sir Kay asks, gesturing towards Queen Igraine.

Young Merlin nods. "She will. But she'll be ailing through the rest of her life; weakened and prone to illness. I am sorry."

"But how did the poison get into her blood?" Sir Kay demands.

"Somebody must have poisoned her," Gawain says darkly.

Sir Kay shoots him an exasperated look. "I know _that_. I'd like to know who did it – and how."

"The smallest cut would have been enough," Merlin says. "She _does_ have a small cut on her cheek; barely more than a scratch."

"Then she must know who did it," Sir Kay leans over the weakened Igraine. "Milady, do you know who poisoned you?"

Igraine is deathly pale, her cheeks are sunken, her eyes enormous, her whisper barely audible. "I do. But I… won't tell you."

"Why not?" several people demand at once angrily.

"Because… this kin-strife must… come to an end," Igraine whispers. "Somebody… has to make the… first step to… end it. _I can_ be… that person."

For the first time in a very long while Morgan is well and truly shocked… and angry. With this unexpected gesture of forgiveness, Igraine has spoiled her triumph thoroughly.

The others seem to feel a lot less forgiving, though.

"It is not that simple," Lord Lucan, in the absence of Leontes now the most influential vassal of the Pendragons, protests. "There is a poison-maker at the court, and we need to know who it is before they can target others, too."

"Whom… should they… target?" Igraine whispers. "Arthur is gone; so is Merlin… and Leontes. I am… the only one… left."

"I still want to know who administered that poison," Lord Lucan insists and many who still keep faith to Arthur murmur in agreement.

It will only take a moment now before someone would raise open accusations against Morgan, because who else would want to remove Igraine from the game?

"I did," a quiet, even voice says from the background, and Sybil comes forth, eerily calm and collected, looking like a ghost in her black cowl and white wimple. "I was the one who gave the orders to attack Bardon Pass, too. I sent those orders in Morgan's name, for I know the men would obey; yet Morgan knew nothing about it. It was _my_ plan all along, and I saw to its coming to fruition."

"Not that it would surprise me," Sir Kay mutters angrily. "We've long suspected your guiding hand behind much of what she was doing. I would still like to ask – why?"

"Because Morgan has been like a daughter to me ever since she was sent to our convent, and I wanted her to get that which was rightfully hers," the nun answers coldly. "Hers was the legitimate claim; yet the laws of this land are made by feeble men who wish to set a son before a daughter, even if he is a bastard and not fit to rule."

"So you took the law into your own hand," the foreign Arthur says; it isn't a question. He then looks at Lord Lucan askance. "Can she do it? Does she have the authority to legally crown a Queen?"

"She does, if she was an abbess," the guardian of Bardon Pass replies.

"I was," Sybil says simply. "It is done now, and it cannot be undone; not even if the boy King returns. Queen Morgan is the eldest, the one rightfully born in the royal bed. Do with me what you want; I don't care. I've fulfilled my destiny."

"I'd be carefully when it comes to destiny," young Merlin mutters darkly but no-one pays him any attention.

A shame, really. Morgan has the feeling that he could tell a great deal about the topic. Perhaps later, should they all survive this encounter, they will get the chance to discuss it. Now, however, she'll need to have her wits about her to save her newly won throne.

"The punishment for treason is death!" Gawain growls. How predictable.

Morgan has had enough. She's not willing to sacrifice Sybil, just to placate Arthur's lapdogs. Not even though she knows the nun would make that sacrifice willingly.

"Back off!" she snarls at the big warrior. " _I am_ the Queen here, and she has never betrayed _me_. She may have made mistakes out of poor judgement, yes, but she never turned against _me_ ," she looks straight at Sybil, begging her to understand. "I fear I cannot allow you to remain at court, though, Mater. I shall have your convent rebuilt, however, so that you can return to your former life in the service of God."

The nun bows respectfully. "My Queen is merciful."

"What?" Sir Kay cries out in disdain. "You'd allow her to leave unpunished?"

Morgan gets right into his face. "She'll never see me again. Don't you think that's punishment enough?"

For them both, in fact, though she knows better than say it loud.

"No-one will accept _you_ as our Queen!" Sir Kay spits. "We'll have Queen Igraine rule us all before we'd let you take Camelot from us!

"I do not intend to rule from this half-rotten ruin," Morgan returns coldly. "I'll rule from my father's castle, as he did."

"And I won't rule anyone… from anywhere," now that the poison has left her body, some of Igraine's strength seems to return. "Nor… do I wish to… live at court as… as the new Queen's puppet."

"What do you want to do with the rest of your life, then?" Bridget asks in innocent bluntness.

Igraine gives her a tolerant smile.

"I've buried… two husbands. That is… quite enough for one life. I choose to… to take the veil, once that… convent is rebuilt," she looks at Sybil in faint amusement. "That way… we can keep a wary eye… on each other."

Sybil inclines her head in acceptance, and while Arthur's supporters are clearly not happy with the solution, Morgan knows she has no choice but to agree if she wants to keep her newly gained position. She'll miss Sybil's wisdom and ruthless power, certainly. But she is old enough and strong enough to continue on her own; and who knows, perhaps the three strangers can become useful allies, given enough time.

She hopes so. To have somebody like young Merlin to support her…

"Very well," she declares in a truly regal manner. "We'll leave in a week's time; now that the attacks have stopped, everyone can safely return home."

"I'll _not_ go with you!" Gawain growls and Brastias nods in agreement.

Morgan shrugs. "Then stay here and fight with the beasts of the forest for these ruins. I care not. Everyone else is welcome to return to Pendragon Castle and reclaim the positions they've abandoned when they chose my brother over me."

That declaration is met with tentative relief, and when, shortly thereafter, the festive dinner is distributed among the tables, friend and foe find themselves in more or less peaceful celebration that lasts well into the night.

~TBC~


End file.
